One morning I stood in the sand at low tide and watched a pair spyhopping. They lingered only a few hundred yards off shore and for an hour kept thrusting their massive upper bodies out of the water. They would hold their heads above the waves for a minute or so surveying their surroundings perhaps even seeing me gazing back at them. There was a girl down the beach from me standing on a rock that was jutting out of the water. It was just the four of us, two giant Grey Whales and two solitary humans on a misty morning looking at each other across a short distance separated by the waves but also by a deep chasm of incomprehensibility. Two worlds of experience separated by tens of millions of years of evolution. How on earth would we ever understand each other? Two little brains and two massive brains contemplating their own unique lives. I felt awe at the spectacle of seeing evidence of a wilder, more magnificent existence than I'll ever be able to understand. And what do they think when the see a puny creature staring at them from a boat or the safety of the shore? I imagine we are a mild curiosity, one of many, that catches their attention for a few minutes before the important work of migration occupies their days and nights.
A few days later I saw one last whale. It was moving briskly up the coast less than three hundred yards from where I walked on the beach. I kept pace with this lone traveler for about forty-five minutes. I walk at about three miles per hour and I had no difficulty keeping the same speed as the whale. A few times we were so close and the morning surf so calm that I could hear it expelling its breath into the quiet still air. Today there was no spyhopping, just a straggler from the warm waters of Mexico making the long swim up the length of the west coast of North America. A weeks long journey and then a summer of gorging on plankton and growing strong for the return trip in the Fall. I probably won't see another whale until October.
Even though this single Grey Whale was separated from other groups making their way north, scientists tell us that they are still communicating with each other with their songs. Their voices carry for great distances. It is thought that before the oceans became filled with the roar of cruise and cargo ships, submarines and aircraft carriers, our sonar signals and underwater tests of every imaginable type, that whales could hear each other thousands of miles apart and recognize familiar songs. Not only have we soiled the seas with garbage, but we have also polluted it with noise.
We call them songs because they resemble long slowed down notes and melodies too grand and just out of reach of our limited musical knowledge. If we listen close enough and many times over the singing that can go on for hours can begin to resemble musical thoughts. Scientists have recorded many different songs and listened to them evolve over years as young whales learn the basic structure of the compositions/conversations and add to them their own slight modifications. I've listened to these recordings and they are fascinating and have been called other worldly. But they are truly of this world, our world, and just because they are incomprehensible and mysterious to us does not make them haunting or frightening. They add a richness to the wonders of the oceans that should humble us and make us realize that we still have much to learn about our wild planet.
I turn for home but not before watching for a few more minutes as this magnificent animal sends plumes of its hot breath skyward. It arches it's massive back above the water and takes a sounding dive and I walk towards my house.
Wislawa Szymborska says in a poem,
Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton
in every other way they're light.
The few weeks preceding and just after the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, are typically days where a high marine layer of grey fog develops overnight and moves a few miles on to land and gives the city a damp solemn appearance. It's not a misty or low hanging fog but more of a cloudy rainy looking sky. But it rarely produces rain. Downtown and inland the skies clear by mid morning but up by my house on The Mesa, a block from the beach, the day can stay overcast until late afternoon. Although this year we haven't had it as severe as years past. Even my neighborhood is clear and fog-less before lunch. This condition is known along the coast as June Gloom and can be the cause of much dreariness and melancholy.
But being from the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts I laugh off the few weeks of morning grey. For a true funk caused by the weather I recommend Pittsfield from late November through mid March. These days that stretch to weeks of sub zero cold and a sun only visible as a low hanging dull disk behind thick snow clouds that dims to darkness by five pm can cast a perceptible pall of depression on sensitive dispositions.
So I actually enjoy my dreary-air morning beach walks knowing that in a few hours the sun will be shining from a deep blue sky. Melancholy is a pervasive enough emotion that it's foolhardy to let the weather contribute to its power to catch me by surprise.
There have been two confirmed Great White Shark sightings here at Leadbetter Beach, a three minute walk from my house, in the last ten days. There are warning signs posted in the sand for miles in each direction, from East Beach all the way to the Boathouse at Hendry's Beach, advising surfers and kayakers to keep away from marine life, like seals.
At low tide I often see egg casings of the Great White so I know they're out there prowling for food. They are still on the endangered species list even though it's thought that their numbers are increasing. And they have been around a long time, over four hundred million years. They are one of nature's masterpieces, perfectly evolved to swim and eat. They are at the absolute top of the ocean's food chain. They are so wild and need so much territory to move in that they only survive for a few hours in captivity.
So these mornings late in June I scan the waves hoping to see this great fish that has survived the eons. I'm not sure what to look for, I guess the iconic and menacing dorsal fin slicing through the water. There have been lots of seals around but few dolphins. Sharks and dolphins rarely occupy the same areas. So I keep my gaze to the deeper water beyond the kelp beds hoping for a glimpse of the ocean's largest predatory fish.
July Fourth starts out gloomy, then clears, then the fog drifts in just before the fireworks start. The thousands of people lining the beach are unfazed by the mist and the show goes on as planned. I spent the afternoon downtown and start walking home just as the first rocket lights up the sky over the wharf and marina. I stroll through the crowd as giant flowers of many colors illuminate the boats in the harbor. There is a long pause in the display and everyone thinks the show is over but after a fifteen minute delay the explosions continue as I walk the up the hill up to Shoreline and by the time I get to my house the sky is full of grey smoke and throngs of people exiting The Mesa. A half hour later the neighborhood is quiet and another Independence Day is over. Before bed I sit a while sipping a drink as a cool summer breeze blows the fog through my rose garden.
July stays busy; there are concerts (Ringo!) and BBQs, house guests and dinner parties, wine tastings and birthdays. And of course, work. The bar stays steady all month, there is no summer lull in the action at the rail. People are out and spending money.
So there is little time for solitude or writing or the longer beach walks that help maintain my balance. The hectic pace is tiring and by the end of the month I am anxious for a few days of peace and relaxation without the distractions of Santa Barbara.
The Fiesta extravaganza, six days of parades and rodeos and parties that celebrate the Spanish cultural influences of Santa Barbara and brings almost one hundred thousand people to town the first few days of August is a perfect time for me to get away. And once again the Wus come to my rescue.
They've rented a house in Yosemite at The Redwoods and Johnny Reilly and I take off early on the Saturday morning of Fiesta's craziest day. The city will be jammed full of tourists. All the major events of the week are over but the party rages on and downtown is full of drunken cowboys who seem oblivious to the fact that they are several drinks beyond their capacity. In the last twenty years I have escaped this ugly weekend all but three times by hiding out in the Sierras. By the time State Street is crowded with thousands of sombrero wearing revelers throwing confetti filled eggs at each other Johnny and I are sitting on a giant deck listening to the breeze in the pines waiting for Pak, Joanna, Ellie and Juliette to arrive so we can take a short hike to the river. After we splash around in the water our afternoon is quiet and relaxing. We snack and sip some wine. The peace of the Wawona Valley is intoxicating. The nonsense of Santa Barbara and its colossal street-clogging party slips from my mind completely.
In the early evening, before dinner, we go to the Wawona Hotel to listen to Tom Bopp play the grand piano in the parlor just off the lobby. We sit out on the patio, as we have for over twenty summers, while Tom entertains with his charming and educational humor. He asks for requests claiming to know fifty percent of all songs ever written. He may or may not be joking. It's hard to tell.
He gets on a roll playing old western songs like Green Green Grass of Home, Back in the Saddle Again, Tumbling Tumbleweeds and Don't Fence Me In. The latter, we learn, written by Cole Porter.
The girls are entranced by the music and go inside to get a closer view of Tom. He is a living national monument recognized by the Park Service for his contribution to the culture of Yosemite.
The sun starts to set in an orange sky. There are fifteen fires burning in the Park this weekend. The drought has made the Sierras frighteningly dry and the smell of smoke is in the air. Most of the fires are lightning strikes slowly burning in the high backcountry. But a few, like the one at the east entrance to the Park is threatening homes and structures. It's about forty percent contained and the smoke from that one has drifted south and is the cause of the beautiful sunset we are watching from the comfort of our wicker chairs as we sip champagne. Rain is predicted for the next few days which will hopefully give the firefighters a much needed break.
But tonight because of the smoke the sun turns the sky deep hues of red and orange. Dangerously beautiful.
Back at the house as the night grows dark, the smoke dissipates and the crescent moon and a few stars poke through the silhouettes of the tree tops, we eat outside by lamplight.
The next day we take the shuttle to the Mariposa Grove of Redwoods and then ride the tram that gives a historical tour of the big trees. At the halfway point, the site of Galen Clark's old cabin in the upper grove, I disembark. The replica of Galen's one room home is now a tiny museum.
I'm going to hike the trail back to Wawona. It's about five miles from the trees to the hotel and then another mile or so to our house. I plan on a leisurely three hours. I'm in no hurry and am in much need of some solitude in the woods. The tram fills back up after the brief stop and continues its tour leaving me at the trailhead to linger a few minutes taking in the wonders of the giant trees. I walk a few hundred yards along the trail and get to the last of the sequoias where the forest changes to sugar pine and cedar and I stop and listen to the silence.
It's an easy hike, a gradual decrease in elevation. The late Mike Carpenter called it the drinking man's walk. It's almost all down hill and the trail ends at the porch of the hotel where cold beer is the reward.
The last time I hiked this trail was with Mike. It was a pleasant afternoon filled with our usual interesting conversations about current passions and our contemplations of what makes our lives worth the while. Mike is deep in my thoughts as I saunter the dusty trail remembering and cherishing that day when our worries were few and we were young and strong. My pace today is certainly slower than it was then.
Mike had measurably more energy and endurance than I ever did. He could out walk me, out ski me, and out climb me. He knew more about food and wine than I ever will and his reading list was eclectic and interesting. We never lacked for things to talk about.
I try not to get lonely and I cherish my solitude but today as I walk deep in the pines and come to an immense hillside covered in manzanita with its unmistakable fragrance. I momentarily fluster with the knowledge that some things are gone forever and I will never completely recover from the major losses of my life. I am permanently wounded by them and they are part of who I am. The list grows ever longer of the loved ones who changed my life and I try to do them right by living with their wisdom and inspiration. If there is such a thing as immortality this is how it works.
There is smoke in the air and I can feel it in my lungs. The smell mixes with the dust and pines and manzanita. The air gets heavier and the sky slowly starts to fill with thunderheads. Rain still seems a long way off but hopefully tonight it will fall and slow the fires so the fighters can get the upper hand.
But I have spent many a summer afternoon in these mountains where massive ominous clouds formed and the air rumbled with thunder and lightning flashed but no rain fell. After dark the clouds dispersed and when morning dawned the sky was clear and blue.
I get to the hotel without seeing a single other hiker. I had the trail to myself for a few hours and relished in the peace and silence distracted only by the wild flow of my incomprehensible mind with its random thought patterns that constantly keep me amused. The miles of solitude were a precious tonic to counter what has been a hectic few weeks. A sure cure for ennui and sloth, for me, is to walk alone until exhausted, like Henry Thoreau, Ed Abbey, Bruce Wilk and Jim Harrison. Sometimes the cure isn't complete but it puts me in the right direction. After a day of solo trekking and uninterrupted meditation the world of people and work becomes tolerable again, albeit sometimes only barely. Time alone is a necessity for me and as I get older I require more and larger chunks of its restorative properties. Albert Einstien once famously wrote,
"I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity."
And Albert Camus,
"In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion."
The patio looks inviting but I continue on to the house passing though the covered bridge that crosses the South Fork which today is as dry as I've ever seen it. Back at the house the beer is buried deep in ice and JV has set out a hefty cheese and fruit platter. I take off my boots and the girls inform me that they are ready to go swim in the river. Off we go.
Back from the water we we watch the sky grow even darker and it finally starts to rain. Slowly at first, big lonely drops for an hour or so then harder for a while and then steady all night. I wake after two and listen to the mild storm through the open window above my bed and soon I'm lulled back to a deep sleep that is pleasantly disturbed by the smell of Pak making breakfast.
The rain has stopped and after breakfast Pak, Johnny and I take Ellie and Juliette to Sentinel Dome. It's a cloudy dreary morning but the girls are excited to take a real hike and climb a big rock. Their eyes are wide with wonder as they look up at the huge stone and Pak tells them that soon we will be standing way up there.
It's an easy trail, or at least a short one. Johnny's knee/foot/ankle is bothering him so he lingers by the parking lot as we make our way up the rocks. I've lost count of how many times I've made this hike. Pak always jokes that someday when we are old and weak we will still be able to crawl up to the top and nap on the wide flat summit.
It is grey and cool and the views are obscured by low rain clouds. Half and North Domes are visible but Hoffman and Clouds Rest are hidden. Still it's beautiful to be high up in the mountain air. The girls explore the summit and Pak and I remind ourselves how lucky we are. Pak is so happy and proud to be hiking with his daughters and I'm honored to be sharing such a special morning with them.
Yosemite Falls is dry and Vernal and Nevada Falls are running low. The drought in the Sierras is now in its third year. We can see two small fires smoldering, one up behind North Dome and one beyond Nevada Falls. Both are probably lightning strikes and right now pose no threat and are being allowed to burn out naturally.
I tell Pak of a Summer ten years ago when I was camping in the Park and hiked up here just before sunset and waited on a rock ledge for the full moon to rise over the Clark Range. He has heard the story before, but humors me anyway. I was alone on the summit and even thought it was July the night cooled fast at just above 8000 feet and I pulled on a thick fleece. The moon, right on time, as the Earth spun, appeared to inch its way above the mountains and soon gave the illusion that it was so close that it was touchable. It glowed in the night sky with the Sun's reflected light and illuminated the massive granite walls and towering peaks. I sat for a long time in my reverie, until the moon was high above the Park. I could have stayed up there all night if the pull of the hot soup and whiskey back at the campsite wasn't so distracting to my unfocused brain. My unhurried walk by moonlight back to the truck took longer than it should because I kept stopping to marvel at the night sky. Back at my campsite I sat up watching the moon until I started to sleep in my camp chair. Only then did I finally force myself to crawl into my sleeping bag.
Pak and I have threatened for years to spend a night up on top of Sentinel. We would travel light, just our sleeping bags and some fruit, cheese and bread. Like Muir. No stove or lanterns or tents. We would lie on our backs after dark and talk ourselves to sleep under the imponderable blanket of the Milky Way. Perhaps someday we will make it happen.
The day clears and by late afternoon the sky is mostly blue and the smell of smoke is less obvious, the air fresher than yesterday. We are all pleasantly worn out after another fine dinner and a short walk with Ellie to look at the moon through binoculars. It is something she's never done before and we head back to the house with a new understanding of what's out there. One more piece of the puzzle of what the wide world, and beyond, is about.
Everyone is tired and relaxed and I retire early, relatively, to my room to read for a bit before sleep.
I have The Letters of Seneca with me and Nature's God by Matthew Stewart. A book about the religious philosophies of the founders of this country, who influenced them and how their ideas developed. It's a fascinating read, beautifully researched and full of deep wisdom. It should be required reading for every senator and congressman. And for that matter every occupier of the Oval Office and Supreme Court judge. It would shine a light on their colossal ignorance of just what the thinking was behind the writing of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.
As anyone who has read Madison and Jefferson, Franklin and Allen knows, these were not religious men in the sense that they were christians. They believed in a deeper order and reason was their guide. This book collects many of their best thoughts and relates them to the times that they lived in. We would do ourselves a great service as a country to revisit the thinking of the kindlers of the revolutionary flame. They were men of powerful intellect and not prone to superstition or religious nonsense. They were practical and reasonable thinkers. Our country has certainly strayed from their wisdom when it comes to religion.
Sitting up late in the Sierras pondering the lives of the east coast rebels seems an odd combination. But Nature is Nature and the wild world as a guide is never far from my thoughts.
I've often sat in these mountains and read Muir and Galen Clark and Gary Snyder. Their writings are perfect for high country winds and deep forests, raging rivers and sudden blizzards.
Seneca, like Emerson and Lucretius, is always appropriate no matter where I might find myself. I open his letters at random and he reminds me, "Live according to Nature." That is synchronicity at its best. (Actually I'm a skeptic when it comes to synchronicity. Coincidence would be a more appropriate word.) As the night cools my room through the open window above the bed I fall asleep hoping the great philosopher's words will help focus my travels, directionless as they sometime seem.
Our visit to Wawona comes to and end all to soon and Johnny and I are back in Santa Barbara wishing we had a few more days in the mountains. But we are happy with the quality time we were able to spend with the Wus and made tentative plans for our next get together, hopefully by Thanksgiving.
A few days later I find myself as far from the solitude of the quiet trails that follow the south fork of the Merced River as I could possibly be. I've joined Todd H, Lawrence and Carlos for a trip to Dodger Stadium. Obviously not to watch baseball. Sir Paul McCartney is in town and with 56,000 others we are here to listen to him do what only he can. He sings and rocks and dances and laughs for three solid hours and we happily sing along with him often times with tears in our eyes. Sir Paul has all the moves and brings back memories of the best times of our lives to which he contributed the soundtrack.
"I think we have a bit of a party going on here." He says with that sparkle in his eye. And he's right, we do, and we respond with a cheer that shakes Dodger Stadium to its foundation. And not for the last time of the night. He blasts through hit after hit after hit. And when you try to catch your breath he cranks up the energy another notch. And I Love Her, Something and Maybe I'm Amazed puts a lump in my throat. All My Loving, Hey Jude and Hi Hi Hi have us dancing in the aisles. Standing alone with just his acoustic guitar singing Yesterday and Blackbird puts a reverential hush over the crowd. It is not far off from mild hero worship.
Let It Be. Well..... the last time I heard that song all the way through we were bringing Bobby B out of the church for his ride up to his family plot. He loved that song and chose it, I'm sure, for a number of good reasons. What he probably didn't plan on was now that when I hear it I have a hard time letting it play to the end. As Sir Paul sits at his piano and plays those famous opening chords I can't help but think of all the concerts Bobby and I went to together and how he would have loved being here tonight and how much I fucking miss him.
Sir Paul is really unique. He is the only solo performer who can fill stadium after stadium anywhere in the world. He can get fifty thousand people night after night coming out to hear the songs he wrote. There might be bands that could come close, The Stones or Bruce and The East Street Band. Maybe, but if Mick or The Boss went solo that would be a different story.
The Pope might be able to get that many people, or even more, to come out on a warm summer night. But he's making bigger promises than Sir Paul. It's one thing to sing along to pop songs but another thing entirely to expect the keys to eternal salvation. It's a tough job being Christ's representative on earth. And there will be others who will one day have the burden of that position. But once McCartney is done touring there will be no one to replace him.
Plus I wonder if the Pope charged up to four hundred dollars a ticket just how many of the faithful would be waiting with anticipation at Dodger Stadium for His Holiness to walk out on stage?
We didn't pay four hundred dollars for our seats in the first loge, but close enough. And they were worth every penny and I would do it again. Gladly.
Mid August finds me in The Berkshires for a few days. A quick trip to say hi to Mom and my brothers and Bruce, Bill, Kelly Melle and Hauge. It's a low key visit with nothing planned except to relax. Of course, the poet Robert Burns has the final word on the best laid plans. The night I get in Hauge drops off a massive cooler of beer and Sambuca at Mom's house. A bunch of people come by for drinks and the stage is set for the rest of the week. Everyone brings wine. Kelly brings Veuve.
I never have jet lag on the first night. But I took the six am flight out of LA after driving down from Santa Barbara after work. So I've been up twenty or so hours. I'm fatigued but running on adrenalin.
The next five days are a bit of a blur. Time-wise not memory-wise. We hike up to Stony Ledge, sit on the deck, cruise the lake in The Hauge's boat, tour Arrowhead, shop for wine, (with Kelly) eat lobster rolls, sip whiskey with Mide, have nightcaps at the Forge, and each night crash in to bed late and exhausted but relaxed.
The summer afternoon boat cruises are a long time tradition that take place on the hundreds of lakes scattered throughout New England. There are boats of all sizes slowly circumnavigating our lake, Pontoosuc, picking up and dropping off passengers at different docks as the day fades to eventing. Martinis are not inappropriate.
Summer nights on Ridge Ave, at Mom's house, are so quiet after dark. A stark contrast to my busy neighborhood back in Santa Barbara. With the window wide open the night sounds are few and hushed. Someone walking up the street, a car in the distance, the soft rustling of the leaves when an occasional breeze interrupts the stillness. I lie awake and marvel at the silence.
The days fly by and the next thing I know I'm in the air above Connecticut heading toward California.
The calendar says summer is over but the weather does not. Labor Day weekend is hot and tropical. The heat wave durning the last two weeks of August shows no sign of cooling off. It's unusual for this time of year. Santa Barbara is hot and sticky as the the hurricanes that are hitting Baja send wet and humid air as far north as central California.
On the Sunday of the three day weekend we trip up to Avila to see the San Luis Obispo Symphony perform seaside with the delightful singer Inga Swerengin and rockstar Jon Anderson.
Avila is usually a sleepy little hideaway beach town where I've been going for years to slow down and walk the shoreline and sit at night in a hot tub of sulfur water under the sycamores. But today the town is jumping with music lovers. It is a rare treat to see Anderson play live these days. His old band, Yes, tours constantly but Jon has been selective in his appearances in recent years. So this is an important event for old Yes fans.
Jon does not disappoint us. He pulls out some old classics and his voice is in good shape. His music always brings me back to my earliest road trips away from home during high school and college. While I was learning to be independent and exploring the Green Mountains of Vermont or the High Peaks of the Adirondacks the music he created with Yes was constantly playing on our drives and then as I climbed above the tree line his voice was in my head. I will forever associate that music with winding trails through dark forests and barren summits with views of Lake Champlain. With campsites beside deep cold springs and nights of brilliant stars. Wilderness and wildness.
I can't believe it was thirty-five years ago since I first saw him play live at the long ago demolished Springfield Civic Center. And now all theses years later and after many concerts from Albany to Hartford, Saratoga and Los Angeles to my home here in Santa Barbara, his music still resonates with me and has never grown old. Those songs still maintain their freshness and can still surprise and move me, sometimes to tears. That's is the signature of true art.
It was almost cool last night. I haven't been under a blanket in weeks. The nights have been still and hot. Poor sleeping weather and I'm feeling the fatigue from the prolonged heat wave. But there are tiny signs that Autumn is imminent. The crows are starting to flock together after months of independent scavenging. The Terns are skittish and soon they will be far to the south. The late Summer tides are the highest of the year. The swells are big and the surfers are out in packs. The pumpkins in my neighbor's garden are turning from green to orange.
Any day now I will see the first whale heading south to give birth in the comfortable waters of The Sea of Cortez. These are cycles of life endlessly repeating as they have for ages and with any luck will continue long into the future. And we are just a small component that fleetingly shares in the flow of it all, playing our little parts for a very very short time. I try to pay attention.
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